Mad Dog On Fire
by AnimalDecay
Summary: 'This is why you went to see that therapist, Arthur. Because you've gotten yourself into the habit of thinking like this.' But in the midst of the rain, the grayness of his life, the living paycheck to miserable paycheck, maybe this is what he needs most of all. Human AU. USUK is the main pairing, but with some FrUK (and a tiny little bit of PruCan) too. Rated M for a reason!
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Mad Dog On Fire**

**Characters:** Human AU USUK, with some FrUK thrown in for good measure.

**Rating: M** for mildly explicit sexual themes, and some language.

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Hetalia, would I have a fanfiction account? No, because I could do whatever I want with it and make it canon. So I clearly do not own Hetalia.

I like reviews! Doesn't everyone?

* * *

It isn't the rain that Arthur Kirkland hates so much. No, he's proud to say that, being an England native, the born-and-raised type of native that comes with a lenience for- no, an _expectation_ to boast oneself numb about being perpetually saturated, or rather about the thought of it, that he doesn't mind the rain at all. In fact, if it's not too cold and he's not being forced to walk long distances through it, he might almost say he likes it.

The word 'almost' being the operative one.

Because, to be honest, it _is_ the rain that Arthur Kirkland hates so much. Yes, he's ashamed to say that, being an England native, the born-and-raised type of native that comes with a lenience for- no, an _expectation_ to boast oneself numb about being perpetually saturated, or rather about the thought of it, that he doesn't like the rain at all.

_This is why you went to see that bloody therapist, Arthur. Because you've gotten yourself into the habit of thinking like this._

Well, at least he's managed to remember his umbrella this time around.

* * *

In the bar, one that seems a bit too polished for his tastes, there is a bartender that Arthur can't help but gaze at. But perhaps 'gaze' is the wrong word; it sounds too innocent, too naïve to his word-obsessed brain for what his intentions are. Or perhaps it is the right one. Perhaps, if he dares to think about it, hope for it, even, the perverse juxtaposition of the word and what he imagines about the feeling of his fingers sliding down over the man's round arse could be his next big break. There are always publishers looking for that. No one wants a children's book anymore.

Arthur manages to catch the bartender's eye as the man bends to pick up a stray dollar bill from the floor. He speaks English fluently, but with a dense French accent, which Arthur is to discover as they chat idly. They are both thinking the same thing. Arthur is the first to ask.

"Would you care for a place to, ah, _stay the night_?" Every word is spoken with intention, that which Francis is not unwilling to return.

And return it he does. This man is just what Arthur wants tonight, a petty toy to fuel some half-drunk, casual sex for a man living paycheck to miserable paycheck, unsure everyday if he will be able to keep his terrible apartment with the even worse landlord. He only wants someone to take control, send him to the edge and hold him there while he moans out their name, then bring him back from his ecstasy to the quiet, drowsy night. This man is willing to do just that.

"Ungh, Francis..."

"What is it, _mon animal_?"

"I- _God_, I'm going to-"

But the sentence does need finishing.

And Arthur can almost forget why he needed the Frenchman here in the first place.

* * *

The word 'almost' being the operative one.

Because, to be honest, when he wakes up feeling sticky and dirty, with Francis' socks laying forgotten on the floor beside his bed, which is void of the man himself, he's left with nothing but a stiff pain in his backside and a looming emptiness that's even more prominent than before.

* * *

**Culture Notes**

- Mon animal: Used as a term of endearment, or seductively. Obviously the latter, in this case. Means "my animal", but I'm sure you've already figured that out on your own.


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur Kirkland cannot write. It's not a physical thing, no; when he looks down at his hands he finds ten perfectly well-functioning fingers, thank you very much, and his eyes can still see the computer screen he's been staring at for the past half-hour. It's actually, to be truthful with himself, entirely psychological, as much as he hates to admit it. That he can hardly even think about putting words onto the dull screen of the monitor without feeling a hot, churning pain in his abdomen.

So maybe it is physical after all. He briefly considers taking a walk.

But Arthur Kirkland cannot walk. It's not a physical thing, no; when he looks down past his torso he finds legs and feet, and he has everything that he really needs to go outside and enjoy the rare bit of sunshine gracing the city with its warm glow. It's actually, to be truthful with himself, entirely psychological, as much as he hates to admit it. He can hardly even think about facing the rest of the population of London without feeling that same nausea he felt before.

So maybe it is physical after all.

* * *

He types only one word, one stupid 'at', before he's running to the bathroom, upsetting his chair in the process, and emptying the contents of his meager breakfast of burnt eggs and watery orange juice into the toilet. He lurches violently with every bit of bile that comes up, and tears stream down his face. He can't help but wonder if he'll die here, head stuck in the porcelain bowl, picture stuck on the front of newspapers around the country for all to see and laugh at.

Francis would see. Francis would laugh. And despite the fact that he doesn't even know the man's telephone number, let alone where he lives or if he even _reads _the newspaper at all, the thought of it makes Arthur feel even more miserable.

After the sickness has mostly subsided, Arthur walks into his bedroom and lays down on the lumpy mattress on his bed. Although 'walk' is certainly the wrong word. It makes it sound as though he's okay, like he feels better, even to some small degree. He thinks maybe the word 'trudge' would work, but concedes to the pathetic 'crawl', because that's how people usually describe someone on all fours.

Ten minutes later, having made no progress in resting, Arthur decides that a walk might not be such a bad idea after all.

* * *

Arthur has never liked people. Well, that's not it, really. Arthur has no problem with people as individuals. But it's the way they are when in groups, or rather, _packs_, the way they bend down to each other, try to make themselves seem better by being worse, try to be impressive yet conform simultaneously that he doesn't like. It's this hypocrisy he hates, really can't stand, although he's fairly certain that just the thought of it would make him quite the hypocrite himself. But it's not as though he's ever really had anyone to impress anyway. Trying to sleep with someone for a night hardly counts. Hardly.

He pushes the thought from his head.

But he likes it here, even though there are fellow human beings around him in any direction he cares to look. Yes, he fancies Hyde park plenty, he likes to watch the people, just observe, in some way that feels like his bliss, his calling, but only if he could make himself pick up a pen and write about it. But he can't write, not right now, not today, not when it's already caused him so much grief. If only he wasn't the boring, lazy prat he is-

He pushes the thought from his head.

He is particularly fond of the children. Although he doesn't care to have any of his own, there's something fascinating about the innocence and carefreeness that he simply can't seem to emulate, that was lost inside the torrent of stress and anxiety and just full-on, psychological shit that he is-

Once more, he pushes the thought from his head.

And Arthur Kirkland goes home.


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur hates being depressed. He hates how cliché it is among writers, how it saps him of energy to do anything and everything, how it hangs over him like a dark cloud. It comes in waves, each getting bigger, each pulling him out a little farther into the gray oblivion of his mind, and he hates that he doesn't have the willpower to do something about it.

Mostly, he hates how it makes him sound like a Seroxat commercial. God, he can't _stand_ when he gets like this.

But he loves it too. Arthur loves being depressed. He loves how he can live up to society's expectations of being a writer _just this once_, how it saps him of the energy to do anything and everything and gives him an excuse for it, how it hangs over him like a dark cloud. It comes in waves, each getting bigger, each pulling him out a little farther into the gray oblivion of his mind, and he loves that he doesn't _need_ to have the willpower to do something about it.

_This is why you went to see that bloody therapist, Arthur. Because you've gotten yourself into the habit of thinking like this._

How many times has he said that to himself in the past week?

More than he cares to remember, certainly.

It is only when he has thoroughly contemplated this and the clock reads 10:54 that he decides to get up.

* * *

"You _are_ good. You're great! You're just stuck in a rut, it happens to everyone."

"I'm not."

"You won't get anywhere if you keep saying that, Arthur."

"I'm a bloody terrible writer."

"You're pretty stubborn, too."

"I am. And don't expect me to change."

"You know I don't. But if this conversation is going nowhere, which it's not, Arthur- and that is _your_ fault, by the way, which you know perfectly well- I'm going to go. And I may regret it, but I'm going to tell you to write something- anything!- and I want it on my desk by, let's say, Wednesday? No, no exceptions. And I expect it to be good, okay? Goodbye, then- yes, Arthur, I know I'm mean. Okay, goodbye."

Arthur throws his phone across the room in anger. God, he _hates_ when his agent says things like that.

_What do I care if he thinks I'm a child? I don't, that's what. Fuck him. Fuck him, I need to talk to Toris._

_Now where the hell did my phone go?_

* * *

Arthur isn't positive how he ended up here. Sure, he could be literal about it; say that he called his friend who knew something was wrong immediately, who invited him out for tea, and who, not five minutes after they had sat down at the small café table, had received a text from a friend whom Arthur didn't know, and now that he does (because the 'friend' had essentially invited himself to come) wishes he doesn't. He _could_ say that if he wanted to, if he felt just supremely lazy about the whole thing. And he did, really did, and almost couldn't be bothered to think about it any further, but he also felt that the simple, straightforward description he formulated didn't quite do his predicament justice.

His 'predicament'. '_Predicament_'. That could work. Well, it would do for now, anyway.

All of this is going to be verbalized in some manner that's supposed to be eloquent and deep and well thought out, but it (like so many other things in his life, he observes morosely) does not go to plan.

All he manages from his position, head in his arms on the table, is something akin to a groan.

"I _fucking_ hate my life."

There. _That_ sums everything up well.


	4. Chapter 4

Toris' friend, it turns out, is one of the most annoying people Arthur Kirkland has ever had the misfortune to meet. The volume of the voice alone, shrill laughs and whining complaints included, is enough to make him wish his ears could simply turn off at will, but what makes it even worse is that it's absolutely _incessant_. The sheer capacity this man has for talking would be fascinating if it weren't so atrociously headache inducing. He, surely, is the perfect summary for everything Arthur believes is wrong with the human race.

But somehow, amidst the ridiculous patriotism for, or rather, _obsession _with the United States of America, the garish American accent, and even the lack of proper introduction (though Toris had informed him prior that the name is Alfred), he isn't like the rest of the human race at all.

Alfred, it turns out, is actually one of the most genuinely friendly people Arthur Kirkland has ever had the good fortune to meet.

* * *

On any other day, Arthur would have dreaded being left alone with this miserably cheerful man who, as is thought by a less than charitable part of his mind, won't seem to shut up. But when Toris is forced to leave early, apologizing with the quick but utterly baffling explanation (or lack thereof) of "Feliks, he just- and he- and- and _ponies_", Arthur doesn't feel terribly apprehensive about the impending situation at all.

They sit and talk for over an hour (although, to be fair, it's Alfred doing the majority of it) until Arthur looks at his watch and nearly knocks over his teacup in his hurry of jumping up and gathering his things to leave. Alfred looks a bit surprised at first, but takes it good-naturedly, and although it's fairly transparent to Arthur that Alfred would like to continue the conversation (or rather, the monologue), he makes no qualms about going their separate ways.

But it's as they're walking out into the cool fall air that Alfred says something to Arthur that the latter does not at all expect.

"Hey, uh, we should do this again sometime, you think?"

"Well," Arthur can't hide a bit of laughter. "I think we ought to find a day where Toris doesn't have to go run off with his _ponies_ or whatever." Alfred laughs too, but his is more subdued.

"Actually, well, I was thinking we didn't need Toris to be there at all- I mean, if that's not too forward, or anything..." Arthur would have mocked the awkwardly trailing sentence if he weren't so surprised.

"Excuse me?"

"Um, it's just that-"

"Were you... Asking _me_ out?"

"Well, I mean, I hope it isn't offensive or something, just that you looked like- like you-"

"Are the kind of fellow who's into men? Well, I suppose you'd be right about that."

And in a very strange turn of events, Alfred is suddenly completely beside himself with excitement.

"Oh my God, yes!" He fist pumps the air. "My gaydar is so, _totally_ not broken! Ha! Take that, world! Alfred F. Jones has good gaydar!"

And then he's gone, leaving Arthur completely nonplussed and very unsure as to what exactly just happened.

_Or didn't_, says the nagging little voice in the back of his head. But for once, for just this once, he chooses to ignore it.

* * *

Arthur reflects on his day later that night, lying in the uncomfortable, lumpy bed he's so familiar with; an anchor for his thoughts and the partner in a strangely masochistic love affair with the wellbeing of his spinal column. He decides on being sure of one thing: He feels good, well, not _exactly_ good, but better, far better, than he's felt in a very long time.

It's just utterly mind-boggling to think that, for the first time in months, or even _years_, that this 'better-ness' was as a result of a fellow human being.

And tonight, he can sleep in peace.


	5. Chapter 5

The arrival of Wednesday the Dreaded, as Arthur has come to recognize it as, with so many things happening that he wishes could be postponed, and something he feels he might have forgotten (something _important_, God forbid) is far less of the chaotic enterprise it is expected to be. In fact, it's so quiet that it might almost be unnerving, if it weren't so appreciated. Indeed, Arthur contemplates as he sips his morning tea, this is something he could certainly get used to.

But it is not to last, says his phone's sudden shrill ringing and sporadic vibrating, amplified on the table top. And the caller ID is the last nail on the coffin of an unprecedented and very, very bad start to his day.

His agent.

* * *

"Well, Arthur, it's Wednesday, you know, and that means-"

"I do know."

"Indeed you do, that's good. Best to keep those deadlines in mind, isn't it? But really, I only wanted to phone you to wish you a happy birthday!"

...

"Birthday?"

"Yes! The day you came out of your sainted mother's _womb_! You didn't forget, did you? You're thirty now! An old man!"

"Uh, of course I didn't! No, what a preposterous thing to say..." _That's_ what he was forgetting, apparently.

"Oh, good. Well, I'll see you in my office later today then, right? Right. Goodbye, then."

Arthur Kirkland hates getting phone calls.

And not five minutes later, it rings again.

"What is it?"

"Umm... This is Arthur Kirkland, isn't it?" The voice is unmistakable.

"Oh, yes, yes it is. I'm sorry for snapping, Alfred, I just got done with a, er, shall we say, _less _than pleasant phone conversation with my agent?"

"Hey, it's no problem! And if you're wondering how I got your number, it was from Toris. I'm totally not some psycho stalker freak like you see in movies. Have you seen those? Like Hitchcock? Man, those are so great..." Arthur clears his throat as a prompt to the trailing voice on the other end.

"Yeah! So, anyway, first, I was told it's someone's birthday today! So happy one to you!"

Alfred? Wishing _him _a happy birthday?

"Uh, thank you."

"No problem, dude! And it's totally okay if you already have plans, but I was wondering if you'd care to take me up on that offer I made last time we saw each other?"

"No." He quickly realizes his mistake. "Oh God, I'm sorry, I meant no, I don't have plans! I'd love to do something, as a matter of fact, seeing that my day is looking fairly boring otherwise."

"That's totally awesome! Can I pick you up in, like, an hour?"

"I suppose so. But you need to know my address, don't you?"

"Oh, right! Wait, let me get something to write it on..."

* * *

Arthur Kirkland loves getting phone calls.

And he hasn't forgotten the deadline, no, he couldn't just forget, what with all the worry it's caused him. But he chooses to forget that it _matters_, that it's anything more than a certain time on a certain day, just a marking on a clock, like any other moment in time.

For once, or maybe twice, now, he doesn't listen to the tiny voice in the back of his head, yelling for him to do otherwise. He takes a deep breath.

And Arthur Kirkland is, truly is, okay.


	6. Chapter 6

They spend the day together, Arthur and Alfred, leaving the latter's car parked at a meter near the River Thames. They wander aimlessly through the throngs of tourists and street vendors alike, stopping where they want to, passing where they don't. And Arthur likes that 'they-ness', though it's not something he would ever say out loud. He considers, as they sit down at an eatery run by a friendly Spanish barista to eat their lunch, the fact that he has always been just that: A single entity. And while some part of him likes that solitude, even _craves_ it on occasion, there seems to be a sort of fullness in spending time with another human being, a tolerable one. And tolerable is perhaps something of an understatement, he thinks. There's no doubt in the physical appeal; a well-toned chest and strong arms visible underneath the thin shirt and casual but somehow perfectly fitted blazer, the young face and blue-as-the-ocean eyes, suddenly more attractive than Arthur thought it possible to be.

_God, he's bloody turning me into a teenage girl_...

"Hey, Artie. You still in there?"

"Um, sorry?"

"You were just staring off into space, dude. I'd started to think you'd had a heart attack!"

"No, no, I'm fine. But _what_ did you just call me?"

"I said 'dude'. Oh, before that? 'Artie'. That's your new nickname."

"It most certainly is _not_! I'll have you know that you will either address me properly, or not at all!"

* * *

So it is with the sound of two pairs of footsteps among a crowd and the formulation of some, in Arthur's opinion, _truly_ scandalous nicknames and laughter that they come up with the seemingly brilliant idea of the London Eye. Despite the long lines and daft tourists who can't seem to follow the rest of the claustrophobic herd toward their destination, they make it through without any notable strife (not counting the small child who Arthur accidentally knocks over, although he is adamant that it was _her_ who wasn't watching out and ran into his leg, and not an act of carelessness by him) and are finally able to board the ride.

Which is how Arthur discovers that Alfred isn't at all one for ferris wheels, or, likely, anything else involving a good deal of elevation and the thrilling prospect of looking down many, many yards to the ground below. And that he is not willing, for anything, to go to the edge of the capsule to look down at the magnificent view of London, the river, or even out at the sunset in the distance, though Arthur is quick to let him know that he is missing out on a truly novel experience.

* * *

And it is only after the comfortable, quiet drive back to Arthur's, on the sidewalk beside the still-running car in the beginning of a very light drizzle, so light it's almost nothing at all, that Alfred wishes him a happy birthday in what could be a voice softer than he's ever used. And it is in the same place that they kiss for the first time, nothing particularly earth-shattering, just a quick peck on the cheek (quick, but the moment lingers long after), and wish each other good night.

And it is only after a cringe-worthy apology to a certain very irate and neglected-feeling agent that Arthur Kirkland climbs into bed for the night, thoughts centered upon a man who could well be turning his entire world upside down, and falls asleep.

* * *

**Culture Notes**

- River Thames: The second-largest river in the UK. Flows through Southern England, including right through the middle of London.

- The London Eye: Really, _really_ big ferris wheel that sits on the edge of the Thames in London, next to the Jubilee Gardens. Biggest ferris wheel in all of Europe. Big tourist attraction, too.


	7. Chapter 7

The dawn has descended upon a rainy Saturday morning. To Arthur, this means a fresh start to a new day, a washing away of all of yesterday's regrettable events and disappointments. It means that everything is okay. Everything is fine.

_God, that's pathetic. You're not fooling anyone, imbecile._

The dawn has descended, yes. And to most, this means a fresh start to a new day, a washing away of all of yesterday's regrettable events and disappointments. And it _would_ be, but today is not a new day. In fact, maybe it should just still be Friday; Saturday can be a little patient, can wait, because today is only a continuation of the anxiety and insomnia of the previous sleepless night. Arthur is stiff and sore, but can't be bothered to move from his uncomfortable position leaning against the window overlooking the quiet streets below.

The depression, the apathy, the exhaustion, the grayness- all of these are familiar things. But it doesn't matter, because Arthur Kirkland is okay. Arthur Kirkland is fine.

_God, that's pathetic. You're not fooling anyone, imbecile._

Arthur Kirkland is not fine.

* * *

The loud knocking is what finally jolts Arthur from his trance-like state. He shuffles to the door, shoulders hunched, in only sweatpants and an old, tattered U.K. Subs t-shirt, not in any state of mind to care about his appearance. He opens the door with some difficulty, smooth metal slipping underneath his sweaty hand. He is greeted with claustrophobic arms wrapping themselves around his torso and a horribly familiar face. Alfred.

"Artie, dude! I haven't seen you in days! I missed you!"

"Get off, please." An unheard whisper.

"We should totally do that again sometime-"

"Alfred, get off of me." Slightly louder this time.

"-but definitely not that 'eye' thing, or whatever, 'cause that was _way_ too tall-"

"GET _OFF_ OF ME!" There. He heard _that_.

And maybe it's a hallucination, a medical problem perhaps, but the room's temperature might have just dropped significantly.

"Woah, sorry. I didn't know I was crushing you. You okay, man?"

"I-" How the Hell was he supposed to answer that? "I just- well, it's only- God, you just shouldn't be here."

"What? Arthur, is something wrong?"

"No." _Oh, to hell with it_. "Yes. You're _here_. I don't want you to be here when I'm, well, when I'm like _this_."

"Like what?" And for some reason forever unknown, that is the final straw.

"Are you _really_ going to ask me that? Look at me, Alfred, _look at me_! I'm in my bloody pyjamas! I'm depressed and really fucking angry, and I have no money to go back to that stupid old codger of a therapist, and you know why? Because my agent, that son of a _fucking_ bitch, told me I wasn't fucking writing enough! So he had the _nerve_ to just call me out of fucking _nowhere_ and tell me he's not working with me anymore! I haven't fucking slept all night and I can't fucking _deal_ with you right now! So just get _out_! Get out of my apartment, get out of my _bloody_ sight, Alfred!"

* * *

Arthur had expected immediate compliance. He had expected Alfred to turn and run and he had expected never to see him again. What he had not expected was for Alfred to grab him and kiss him. He had not expected Alfred to be rough and passionate and he had not expected the involvement of tounges.

And he is fairly certain that his reaction was not something Alfred had expected either. The pushing away, the slapping of the (_beautiful, immaculate_) face. The threatening to call the authorities. The shouting. The forcible removal.

But one thing, in hindsight, Arthur could have guessed. _Should_ have guessed. As soon as his apartment is empty but for him once more, too quiet, dead-looking, he feels the weight of what he has done wash over him.

And Arthur is sprinting, faster than he has ever run probably, faster than the world record maybe, and is promptly sick in the bathroom.


	8. Chapter 8

Arthur Kirkland hates the rain.

_You are the rain_.

Arthur Kirkland hates humanity.

_You are humanity._

Arthur Kirkland hates himself.

_You are yourself_.

And there it is. That single, inescapable truth, the point at which every other thing in his life is tangent to. The unchangeable fact that Arthur can't be someone he is not. It's always been that way, of course, but then it was just background noise, something that was implicit and not to be thought about. Taboo, perhaps. But now he's being forced to look at it (or himself, as it were) squarely in the face.

"I am the rain, I am humanity, I am myself." Like poetry, maybe. Like god-awful, self-centered, teenage poetry.

He pushes the thought from his head.

* * *

Arthur isn't positive how he ended up here. Sure, he could be literal about it; say that he somehow managed to get up off of the bathroom floor, take a shower, brush his teeth, and get dressed, then mustered some sort of superhuman willpower and walked to this bar, one a bit too polished for his tastes, where he is now craning his neck to catch a glimpse of long, blond hair tied back in a ribbon, or hear a snippet of seductive, French-accented words. He _could_ say that if he wanted to, if he felt just supremely lazy about the whole thing. And he did, really did, and almost couldn't be bothered to think about it any further, but he also felt that the simple, straightforward description he formulated didn't quite do his predicament justice.

But Arthur can't bring himself to care too much, all that really matters at present is the beer in front of him. It's not terribly good, if he's being honest, but he picks it up and downs half of it anyway, aiming only to get a bit drunk. And he feels that the ratio of blood to alcohol in his arteries is about perfect when he hears the voice, _his_ voice, whispering in his ear, sounding like a character from a movie.

"Back again, _mon animal_?"

* * *

Arthur is trapped inside of himself. He cannot breathe. His limbs are moving autonomously, not listening to the sound of his brain, that last confining organ, shutting down. And Arthur does not want to breathe, because that would mean knowing, being aware of what he is doing, the unbuttoning of his shirt, taking off his shoes, and the knowing what the lust inside of him is. He wants to be blind and deaf, unknowing, unfeeling. He wants only to have the man before him take care of him, in a world that does not take care.

("_J'ai tellement envie de toi, mon chiot_.")

But Arthur does not quite achieve this, for the apartment door was left unlocked in the rush to begin doing something, anything, _everything_, with Francis in the lead.

And Alfred is standing there. This time, he doesn't stop, just runs, is gone in less than a heartbeat, a thousandth of a second. But it's an eternity, too, all in slow motion, like a dream.

_Only a dream_.

A nightmare.

Alfred is gone.

* * *

**Culture Notes**

Mon animal: "My animal". We've seen this one before.

J'ai tellement envie de toi: "I want you so"/"I really lust for you".

Mon chiot: "My puppy". The French have such a _great_ sense for seductive names, don't they?


	9. Chapter 9

"Hello?"

"Hi, Toris."

"Arthur? Why are you calling me?"

"I- I don't really know, honestly. I guess I just need your advice."

"I see."

"Did you-"

"I heard what happened, yes. Alfred told me. I don't exactly understand why, though."

"Yeah, well, neither do I."

"I figured as much. I've known you for a long time, Arthur, and I'd like to think I'm pretty good at figuring you out, even where others can't. But I must admit, my friend, you've got me very well stumped here."

"I know. I just- _God_, I have no idea what to do. I've fucked up, Toris, and I would be the first to say it. I've made a real mess of everything. But how am I supposed to fix it?"

"Maybe you aren't."

"_What_?"

"I mean- and don't take this too personally, _please_- that maybe this is how it should be. I'm sounding like a pessimist here, I know, and I wish I weren't, but I think that you need to realize that sometimes, things just don't work out. You need to learn how to avoid doing stuff like this again, and I think that having this experience under your belt might be the best way to do that."

"But what do I _have_ without him? My agent just sacked me, I'm late on my rent and getting closer and closer to being kicked out of this bloody hole in the wall every _day_-"

"Well, Arthur, I guess you should have thought of that before you went and had sex with that guy. Now, I have to go, okay? But- wait, Arthur, one more thing, and I hope this is the right thing to say: I think that if you really try, you can fix this. Because I've talked to Alfred already and I know he doesn't want it to be this way either. You'll have to work at it, though. So good luck, okay? Talk to you later, then. Goodbye."

_Bloody Hell..._

* * *

Arthur Kirkland has a plan. Well, not _exactly_ a plan. That would imply thought, would imply deliberation, possibly. And really, no coherent consideration went into the adrenaline-fueled, spur of the moment undertaking that Arthur has formulated. It seems to be a plausible idea, but he never quite gets to the point of actually finding out.

Because Arthur steps out of the main door of his apartment complex and directly into a large crowd of people.

It takes a minute to realize exactly what is happening. Everyone seems to be facing the same direction, looking somewhere he can't see. They are all standing behind a barrier, somewhat self-imposed, but aided also by two police cars and an ambulance.

He pushes to the front of the crowd, elbows his way past everyone else, and finds his breath stuck in his throat as he sees the event causing so much attention. There are two cars, one crumpled in the front, the other smashed in on the side, windows broken in both, bits of metal and plastic and glass strewn about. But then there are people in uniforms, too, carrying someone on a stretcher to the ambulance, another man beside them with a trickle of blood running down the side of his strangely pale face and almost white hair. Another ambulance is taking a woman away, but she doesn't look terribly hurt, and Arthur isn't watching her anyway.

He is focused on the tuft of blond hair in the stretcher, with the odd little curl sticking up from it, and the voice screaming in pain that might sound just a bit too much like Alfred...

But then Alfred _is_ there, stepping out of a taxi cab, running, sprinting towards the car. He yells one word, a name, _Matthew_. Who's Matthew?

* * *

But there is no time to question, because then the paramedics have put the apparent 'Matthew' in the back of the vehicle, and the pale man too, and Alfred is shouting and they let him get in and are those _tears_ on his cheeks?

But there is no time to question, because then the crowd begins to disperse with the help of police officers and the lights and sirens are blaring and the ambulance is gone.

And Alfred is gone with them. Gone again.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N**: Wow! Over 1,000 views! Many thanks to all of you who have favorited, followed, and reviewed, as well as those who have read any of this at all. Now, on with the story!

* * *

Arthur is running. To where, he doesn't know. How far, he isn't sure. All he knows are the back alleys, the graffiti-covered wall after graffiti-covered wall, the stabbing pain in his lungs and his legs. He finally stops when stricken by the desperate need for oxygen, one that he'd been avoiding but now must address. He lays down on the hard cement behind a brick building, chest heaving, blood pounding, _roaring_, in his ears. There are cars going past on the other side, he can hear them. He can hear voices saying things he does not understand, that do not matter. They are in a language that he might once have known, but has forgotten.

Arthur is running.

He is running away, as fast and far as his feet will carry him. He can't see, can't comprehend. His ears are ringing with the bloodcurdling screams of a young man, the shouting of another, from somewhere very far away. Another planet perhaps, or another universe. He lays down on the hard cement behind a brick building, chest heaving, blood pounding, _roaring_, in his ears. There are cars going past on the other side, but he cannot hear them. He cannot hear the voices speaking in a language that he might once have known, but has forgotten.

And then Arthur is walking. Getting up again, taking note of the street, triangulating. He doesn't think about anything else. He starts back home.

* * *

That night, Arthur dreams of Alfred. He remembers little of it the next morning, though the snippets of what he can recall, as well as his half-hard arousal, indicate that it was certainly, well, _less_ than innocent.

He steps into the shower, tries to ignore the feeling of the hot water upon him, mostly tries to ignore the thoughts that seem to linger on Alfred, of what he can piece together from his dream. As he rinses the shampoo from his hair, though, he resigns himself to his needs, and his hand slips down to his stomach, then lower still.

_God, Alfred..._

After a rather embarrassingly short time, he finishes, but remains standing in the shower even after the now lukewarm water has been turned off. He wants to call Alfred, he _needs_ to, because there is an apology to give to him, forgiveness to beg from him, but all of that has come to a halt, in the wake of these events, these tragedies and insignificant yet massive disasters.

Arthur sighs, frustrated, and steps out of the shower. All he can do now is wait.

And he does, until about half-past seven that evening.

"Arthur Kirkland speaking."

"It's Alfred."

A long silence follows.

"Are- are you alright? That is, after, you know-"

"I'm alright."

"I saw it happen. It was just outside my apartment, actually."

"I know."

"So, um-"

"Arthur." His voice is hollow-sounding, but somehow firm. "I know that things haven't been exactly, well, _good_ between us lately, but the thing is, I need your help."

"My help?"

"Yeah. You're a writer, aren't you? I've never been able to write, and I need you to help me with Matthew's-" his voice trembles slightly. "-his eulogy. He was my brother, see, so I know what I want to say, but I just need help putting it into words."

"Me? Are you sure? I- I don't know if I could, I've haven't been writing very much lately, so-"

"Please, Arthur. I know you're good, I know you can. _Please_."

And that voice, desperately pleading, is something that Arthur will not- cannot- reject.

"Can I come over in, like, twenty minutes? It won't take too long, I promise."

"Yes, okay."

"God, thank you, Arthur. Thank you. See you in a little while."

"See you."


	11. Chapter 11

Arthur cannot wait. And the pacing, the back and forth monotony that's beginning to wear a hole in the cheap, fake wood floor; that might be the reason for the frayed carpet, the good one- _expensive_- is an indication, a warning sign to anyone who can see, of his irritation, or more appropriately, his fuming impatience. It's best not to understate these things, he thinks, as he glares at the coffee table (and for God's sake, what a hideous name; he doesn't even _like_ coffee). Yes, it's only logical to be honest with oneself.

But then, Alfred pulls up to the curb and steps out of his car, leaving Arthur little time to reconsider his situation.

Arthur could wait for an eternity. And the rigid stillness, the unmoving limbs that seem to be stuck in place by the rusty joints that he must now possess; that replaced the good ones he once had, that long ago made him a formidable enemy and valuable member of the college cricket team, are an indication, a warning sign to anyone who can see, of his anxiety, or more appropriately, his full-fledged terror. It's best not to understate these things, he thinks, as he glares at the door (and for God's sake, what a hideous thing, he doesn't _want_ anyone coming into his house, he _hates_ company). Yes, it's only logical to be honest with oneself.

A knock on his door.

Alfred.

* * *

All things considered, the time they spend together isn't nearly as bad as Arthur had imagined it to be. They have their share of awkward silences, yes, and the near-palpable tension is a bit uncomfortable, but there's arguably more good than bad, disregarding the circumstances that they meet under, which are, in a most understated fashion, extremely unfortunate. Alfred, though, seems intent upon being detached, for Arthur's lack of a better word, from the situation, despite the obvious effort it's causing him. He is, Arthur suspects, the kind of person who would want to talk about what happened, but he's holding back from giving too much detail, partly out of his own lingering denial, partly out of his mistrust of Arthur (or what said Arthur perceives as so). From what he's said and what Arthur can infer from the dark flesh underneath his eyes (as well as other various aspects of his appearance), he hasn't slept at all, staying awake to watch over his brother, and to discuss future plans with the pale man Arthur saw before, named Gilbert, who was apparently Matthew's long-time partner.

Arthur is forcing himself to write, to put words on a page that's been blank for so long, both metaphorically and literally, and just the simple act of it is making him feel the same, naïve things he felt back at University- truly inspired, and as though he were on top of the world. Complete, whole, and unstoppable.

* * *

And after what could have been seconds, but in reality was almost two hours, Alfred stands up to leave. Arthur gets up, too, and follows him.

"Alfred? I really am, you know, sorry about what happened."

"Don't be, there wasn't anything you could've done."

"N-no, I mean I'm sorry for _everything_."

A long silence follows.

"Oh."

"And I've really got no idea why I did it, either. I mean, honestly, what the Hell must have been going on in my _head_-"

"I wouldn't know." He pauses briefly. "No offense, Arthur, but you're pretty fucked up. I'm sorry, but you are.''

...

"I know."

(_Those aren't tears, don't cry, not here. It's true, you _know_ it is, you stupid, you _pathetic-)

"And I can't blame you for being angry, Alfred. I suppose I kind of deserve to be hated, don't I?"

Alfred doesn't acknowledge that he's said anything at all.

"Anyway, thanks for the help, Arthur. See you around sometime, I guess."

And then he's walking out the door, and Arthur can't help but lower himself onto the chair he had been sitting in and his head into his arms, and, for the first time in what might have been years, begin to cry.

* * *

**Culture Notes**

- In Britain, high school is often called college, and college is called University.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N**: Okay, this is a bit embarrassing to have to say, but necessary. So, back in Chapter 10, Alfred asked Arthur for help writing an epitaph. However, it was meant to be a _eulogy_ that he was trying to compose. It doesn't come up in this chapter (or the next few, probably) but I wanted to make the meaning clear now, so I don't forget to in the future. Needless to say, I went back and changed it in the story as well.

* * *

The concept of sleep is a foreign one. In fact, Arthur thinks, it's ceased to be a real _concept_ at all; more so a vague and abstract parallel, another reality that isn't quite real. And maybe it's the thought of just doing nothing, of ceasing any and all productivity. Perhaps it's the absence of coherent thought; the ultimate, supreme idealism of it all.

But there's work. _Work_ is certainly productive. But...

_But what, Arthur?_

But the concept of work is a foreign one. In fact, Arthur thinks, it's ceased to be a real _concept_ at all; more so a vague and abstract parallel, another reality that isn't quite real. And maybe it's the thought of just doing _something_, of the inability to leave what's been started unfinished. Perhaps it's the absence of coherent thought; the ultimate, supreme artificiality of it all.

But...

("No offense, but you're pretty fucked up. Sorry, but you are.")

But nothing. Arthur jumps back, startled, when his phone rings.

_For the love of God, pull yourself together._

* * *

"Many apologies for calling you so late, Arthur-"

"It's ten thirty. What on Earth-"

"Hear me out, please. I know this is going to come as a bit of a shock, but I believe I may have made a mistake."

"You've made a mistake, how?"

"Well, you see, I've been regretting my decision to let you go. I've searched around for other writers but, honestly, none are quite what I'm looking for. And I think that if we can work something out- a system, if you will- we can make this work again."

"That last sentence sounded like you'd broken up with me, or something."

"Arthur, I'm _serious_. Would you like to try again or not? If it's a no, just tell me-"

"Wait, no, that's not what I meant! I'll do it, sure. I kind of have no choice, you know, in the _financial_ department."

"Will you really? Oh, I'm delighted! Can you come in to my office tomorrow? Yes? Alright, then. See you soon, Arthur."

* * *

But not even that news, fantastic as it is, can shake off the words that are chasing themselves in circles in his mind, muddling everything that was once clear-cut and easy. Nothing is straightforward now. And then Arthur does something that he believes, had he attempted it at any other time, would have necessitated solitary confinement in a padded cell and straightjacket. This something involves picking up his phone and dialing the number of Alfred F. Jones.

But Alfred, it seems, is unwilling to talk to him, which is evident by not actually answering at all, and it hardly goes unjustified. But that doesn't stop Arthur from wishing he would pick up. There are so many things to say, without words to say them, and perhaps it's better this way, that maybe he would rather do it in person, where he could take hold of Alfred's hands and-

_You always turn away from me. And then you come back later and I don't understand it and God, I'm a stupid mess, but I love you, Alfred-_

Love?

He says it out loud once, letting it roll over his tongue and fill his mouth. It has a foreign, strange feel to it. He thinks about it for a moment. _Love_. Perhaps.

But now there are other things to prepare for, things that require more immediate attention. So Arthur brushes his teeth and, without bothering to change into pyjamas, climbs into bed.

Where sleep, for another night, manages to evade him.


	13. Chapter 13

The prospect of this sort of meeting with his agent, with its potential to be extremely uncomfortable and awkward, would usually leave Arthur in some state of paralyzing anxiety in the minutes before he is to leave; heart racing, and the beginnings of a cold sweat. But when he wakes up an hour later than he means to, after finally falling asleep at around four thirty in the morning, he has no time for worry. Because he now has only a half hour to get ready and catch the bus to get to his agent's office.

Despite this, though, and the arriving ten minutes late and the profuse apology to the man sitting behind his desk laughing uproariously at the sight of his still wet hair and badly done tie, their meeting goes quite well. Arthur reluctantly agrees to be better about deadlines, and his agent promises not to set such harsh ones. Although, if Arthur knows him at all, this promise will likely not be well-kept. But he feels better about the situation anyway.

* * *

Back at home, he's even got the energy to put a record onto the old turntable- once his father's- and listen to music while he makes himself lunch. The record is playing The Clash; it's old and one of his favorites from his teenage years. He's so absorbed in the nostalgia of the songs and the mustard being spread onto his sandwich that he doesn't register the knocking on his door, and only when he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket, marking the receiving of a text message, does he realize that Alfred has been waiting outside his door for almost five minutes.

Alfred?

_This_ could certainly be awkward.

* * *

"Sorry for just coming over out of nowhere, I was going to call you but I have some things to do around here anyway so I figured I could just tell you now." Alfred's voice is similar to how it was when Arthur had last heard it, retaining little of the usual vigor that can usually be counted on.

"Not a problem. Sit down, though, and make yourself comfortable while I go turn that music off. Tell me what?"

"Well, I'm running errands for the funeral to help my dad out with it, you know, which is the day after tomorrow. And because you helped me out so much with writing that thing, I figured you deserve an invitation. But only if you want, obviously."

"You're inviting me to the funeral of someone I've never actually met?"

"Well, I mean, like I said, you _did_ help me a lot when you really didn't have to, so it's only the right thing to do."

"That's not what I meant." Arthur exhales agitatedly, attempting to gather his thoughts into some semblance of coherency. "I mean why would you invite me after all the shit I've done? You said yourself, I'm pretty fucked up-"

"Wait, I didn't-"

"I just have no fucking clue what you think of me, Alfred! You always turn away from me. Then you come back later and I don't understand and it's probably the most confusing thing in the world, or maybe even the _universe_, and it's bloody frustrating, too."

(They're too close for comfort; those words he'd been thinking of the night before.)

"Well, maybe I don't really know either." He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. "But, I mean, I don't hate you, I guess."

"Just- just don't feel as though you have to invite me. If you want me to go, sure. But if you don't, that's okay too."

"So I can pick you up at around quarter after nine the day after tomorrow?"

"Alright then."

Alfred is at the door when he turns around and says, "You know, I think you and him would have been good friends. Matthew, that is. You're actually kind of like him."

And he walks out, leaving Arthur just as befuddled as he had been before.


	14. Chapter 14

The rest of Arthur's day passes slowly and without incident, and he manages to avoid the usual anxieties that, for the past few (read: too many) weeks have been plauging him seemingly relentlessly. Really, the only small crisis comes from the adequate funeral attire- or in his opinion, the lack thereof- in his closet. After a quick search of the internet, text message to Toris, and adventure through the dusty depths of his apartment, however, his problem is resolved.

It's really quite nice to have a day off every once in a while, yes. But if the slight reminiscence of the long-ago Wednesday, his birthday, is anything to go by, he really should have known.

Yes, in hindsight, he really should have known that it wouldn't last.

* * *

The first sign of imminent cataclysm is the phone call. It's essentially just one jumbled voice among many, but Alfred is loud by nature, and judging by the vocal stumbles and odd, nonsensical little rambles, the intoxication is not helping. Apparently, he drove to a bar without any intention of getting _too_ drunk, but as it always seemed to be when one took part in such activities in the late evening, he did. It's dark as Arthur walks to this bar, one that (as he learns from a bartender that Alfred unceremoniously shoves his phone into the hand of upon Arthur's request for a location) is only a few blocks from his apartment. One of the perks of living in central London, apparently.

The second sign of imminent cataclysm is Alfred's drunkenness itself. He knows from a passing conversation they'd had that Alfred doesn't drink often or heavily, so the fact that he had been doing so at all, especially in a way that necessitated a ride home, is rather concerning. He's so incapacitated, in fact, that he can hardly remember where his car was parked and which pocket the keys were in. He's rapidly approaching semi-conciousness by the time Arthur remembers that he has no idea of Alfred's address. He opts instead to just take him back to his apartment for the night.

Which, unfortunately, is the third and final sign.

* * *

It's all happening a bit fast for Arthur's liking.

The minute they're out of the hallway and into the apartment, Alfred is suddenly very, alarmingly close. And then his hands are on Arthur's sides and Arthur vaguely registers that his oxygen supply has been cut off, but it doesn't matter because Alfred's lips feel just _so_ addicting when shoved up against his own, and he's forgetting to be confused about what _exactly_ brought this on, of all things, in the heat of the moment, in the realization that they both have _far_ too many layers to be comfortable.

And suddenly, it's all happening a bit slowly for Arthur's liking.

Even though Alfred likely has no idea what he's doing, Arthur simply can't bring himself to slow down. He's been wanting this in his dreams- and out of them- for far too long to pass up the opportunity now, and although some part of him feels slightly guilty about taking advantage like that, the majority of him, quite frankly, doesn't. And where Francis had skill and experience, Alfred more than makes up for with enthusiasm and some talent of his own- which has Arthur in a feverish state from the beginning.

When they've exhausted themselves and each other, when they're just about completely enveloped in the hazy cradle of sleep in the lumpy bed, Arthur whispers something that, had he thought Alfred would hear or remember it in the morning, he certainly wouldn't have.

"I love you."

He just wants to try it out in a logical context. It's a harmless experiment, he rationalizes. But somehow, for reasons that Arthur doesn't want to come to terms with, it's beginning to feel far less foreign than before.

_I love you._


	15. Chapter 15

Alfred will be picking him up soon.

Arthur doesn't want to think about it.

Alfred will be driving him out to some place in the countryside. The ride will probably take over half an hour.

Arthur doesn't want to think about it.

He feels a bit sick. Looking out of the window, he can see Alfred's car pull up and park on the curb. The clock reads 9:15 exactly.

Alfred.

Arthur doesn't want to think about him.

* * *

The car ride is possibly the most uncomfortable experience in Arthur's life. It is almost completely silent; they talk only once when Alfred asks if he should turn on the radio, which Arthur agrees to. But after flipping through station upon station, all playing music that neither of them can stand, Alfred just turns it back off, and they lapse into silence once more.

Despite the fact that he knows thinking about it will only make the whole situation more painful than it has to be, Arthur can't stop replaying the events of the evening, two nights prior, in his mind. It was like a dream, a fantastic, high-off-life kind of dream- and like so many others, it all came to a screeching halt in the morning after. Alfred had woken up first, and despite the visible hangover and the initial confusion about where he was and how _exactly_ he had gotten there, he managed to keep a clear head. He found out from Arthur that his car was outside and the keys were on the counter, then put on his clothes (which were strewn about on the floor, tangled up in Arthur's) and, mumbling something about mistakes and being too drunk, left in a flustered hurry.

Arthur doesn't realize that he's been staring at the profile of Alfred while thinking about this until that profile turns to him. Their eyes meet only for a second before both quickly look back to the road, each slightly red in the face. Arthur determinedly avoids looking to his right at Alfred for the whole rest of the ride. He wonders if Alfred remembers as much of it as he does.

When they arrive at the church after what feels like ages, Arthur is pleased to note that he is dressed appropriately, and fits in well with the other people there. He follows Alfred, who introduces him to the others, and them to him. Which is the most speaking they do with each other for much of the rest of the day.

* * *

Alfred is one of the most confusing human beings Arthur has ever encountered. Granted, he isn't terribly skilled at deciphering emotions in the first place, but Alfred has an almost bipolar attitude towards him, which Arthur is somewhat skeptical can be _completely_ due to him.

And it's not until they and the rest of the people attending are standing in the graveyard by the casket over the gaping hole in the ground that he notices the silent tears rolling down Alfred's face. Without thinking, Arthur takes Alfred's hand in his own and rubs his thumb over the smooth palm. They jerk away at the same time.

The only one who looks to be in a worse state than Alfred is Matthew's partner, Gilbert. A tall, blond man who Arthur had been introduced to as Gilbert's brother is standing next to him, hand on his back as he cries too.

Everything is so sad, too sad. Some selfish part of Arthur just wants it to be over.

As they walk to the car, Arthur insists he drive, which Alfred allows him to do. They don't speak much on the way back, instead finding a decent radio station to listen to. The last song that plays before they arrive at Arthur's apartment is one of his favorites- Rock 'n' Roll Suicide.

_Bowie just knows bloody _everything_, the genius._

Arthur steps out of the car, and so does Alfred, which is presumably just to get into the driver's seat, but then Alfred says something that is simultaneously more confusing and clarifying than anything Arthur has ever heard him say.

"I don't know if you even remember this, but when I came over that time, the one a little bit after we spent the day around London, you said you were depressed. I might be making a bigger deal out of it than it is, but it scared me when you said that. The thing is, my mom committed suicide after Matthew was born. It was, like, postpartum depression or something, I think. Neither of us were old enough to remember it, or her."

Nowhere in his extensive arsenal of words is there anything Arthur can find to reply with.

"I don't know why I thought of it, but it just seems like everyone is dying, you know? God, I sound stupid right now, but I just- you just can't go the same way."

And then Alfred has wrapped him in a tight embrace.

"You mean too much to me for that."

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Arthur finds himself beginning to smile into the folds of Alfred's jacket, as his hands find a place to rest between his shoulder blades.

"I'm not going anywhere."


	16. Epilogue

"-But a real book signing, though? That's so awesome! I haven't been to one since I was a little kid!"

"It's not that big a deal, I told you. And I coauthored it, remember? So I won't be the only one signing. Now get up off your lazy arse and help me take these boxes to the other room."

"Still, though, it's cool-"

"Careful now, those are my records you've got!"

After the boxes have been set down in a corner of the small living room, they collapse onto the couch. It still smells of the moving truck it had been in earlier. Alfred wipes some sweat from his brow.

"Isn't this the most amazing place, Arthur? I mean, it's not big- Hell, it's actually _tiny_, but it was pretty affordable. But look at us! We've got a real house!"

Arthur smiles and goes to open the window.

"Well, there's plenty of light, at least." He smiles at the view of the little patch of green yard in the back. "It's lovely, Al."

And it is. Though the couch barely fit through the door and the joined dining room and kitchen area almost burst from all of the appliances and furniture crammed into it, Arthur couldn't love the house more. It's like something from his wildest, most fantastic dreams, and that's much due to the man he's sharing it with.

"It's about time we found this place, too. You're what, thirty-three, old man?"

"Bugger off, it's not like you're much younger yourself."

"But I _am_, that's the thing. Twenty-six and lovin' it, baby!"

Arthur scoffs, but can't stem his laughter, and Alfred grins as he has to sit down on a box to catch his breath, tears forming in the corners of his eyes, though neither of them are sure why exactly it's so funny.

Once he's regained the ability to breathe, Arthur gets up and climbs the stairs to the small second-story bedroom, where there's currently only a mattress on the floor, to be replaced by the Swedish flat-pack bed that has yet to be assembled. They'll do it later though, and suddenly Arthur has the vision of Alfred struggling to build it without directions, pieces scattered all over the floor. He's not sure whether it makes him want to cringe or smile, but instead of dwelling on it, he walks into the bathroom across the landing, where the tiles are cool and smooth under his bare feet.

Alfred is there then, arms wrapping around his waist from behind, chin resting on his head.

"So you love it, right?" He's still smiling widely as ever.

"I do." Arthur leans back and into him, and turns his head to kiss Alfred lightly.

"Hey, Arthur, are you happy?"

"Yes, I think so."

They spend a moment in content silence.

"Me too. I love you, Arthur."

"Love you too, Al."

_So this, finally, _this_ is what it means to be happy._

And they are.


End file.
